


you know the earth and the rain like my mouth

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: mcsmooch, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-24
Updated: 2009-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney stands in the middle of the field and stares up at the swiftly darkening sky, where iron grey clouds move in to blot out the blue with a suddenness that can only speak of an oncoming rain storm. "Oh, oh, you are kidding me," he mumbles to himself, because after a long day's labour in the heat and humidity of an Athosian harvesting, after a full day's work with hands and aching back and an uncooperative harvester prototype, he's going to get caught out in this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	you know the earth and the rain like my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> For Jenn, who wanted a downpour.

Rodney stands in the middle of the field and stares up at the swiftly darkening sky, where iron grey clouds move in to blot out the blue with a suddenness that can only speak of an oncoming rain storm. "Oh, oh, you are _kidding_ me," he mumbles to himself, because after a long day's labour in the heat and humidity of an Athosian harvesting, after a full day's work with hands and aching back and an uncooperative harvester prototype, he's going to get caught out in _this_?

"Back to the village!" he yells at John, who is several swathes of freshly-reaped _thakka_ straw away.

John stands and straightens, hands at the base of his spine as if to self-heal the stoop this day has left in his back. His worn BDUs and faded black t-shirt are dusted with silvery _thakka_ grains; under his arms and around his neck, the cloth is sweat-dark; the stubble on his jaw line is shades of grey-and-black. Standing there in the quickly changing light, Rodney looks at him and feels for one disorienting moment as if John's been standing there forever: as if their years in the Pegasus galaxy are slowly grounding John's bones in this clean earth, remaking him to match the rolling silver of its landscape, its darkening skies.

"What?" John sticks his pitchfork into the ground and ambles over to join Rodney. His hands are jammed into his pockets, and really, Rodney will never understand why it is that John _enjoys_ these jaunts to the mainland. There are _snakes_, for god's sake, and manual labour. "Got half the field to finish still, Rodney."

Rodney points at the sky, glaring at John. He can _feel_ the pressure dropping, the humidity beginning to resolve itself into fat, heavy drops of rainwater. "It's about to rain," he says, "and we'll be caught out in it if we don't hurry back."

John tilts his head back and looks at the sky with an expression of rapt concentration for several long moments, the kind of scrutiny he tends to employ only when figuring out flight plans for a team of 'jumpers, or deciding between pineapple or raspberry jello in the mess. "Huh. You're right."

"And yet," Rodney notes, "you're _still standing there_."

John squints at him. "Carter's comparison aside, you don't resemble the Witch of the West that much, Rodney. You won't melt in the rain."

"Give it up, folks," Rodney says, "for the comedy stylings of John Eugene Sheppard", but the only applause they get is the sound of the sky breaking open, rain water falling from the sky with enough force to sting against Rodney's skin and beat against the ground in a syncopated tattoo. "Oh, great," Rodney sighs, and experiences with exquisite clarity the feeling of cold water soaking right through to his Albert Einstein-emblazoned boxers, droplets trickling down his inner thigh while his socks grow damp inside his boots.

Of course, John—being John—lets out a whoop as the rain grows heavier, throwing his arms out wide and opening his mouth to catch a flurry of drops on his pink and outstretched tongue. The rain washes the silver thakka grains from his skin and clothing and when he looks back at Rodney, he's sleek and dark and grinning, his clothes plastered to the angles of shoulders and hipbones. "_Awesome_," he breathes, great over-grown child that he is.

"Lummox," Rodney tells him, because he sees nothing amusing in this.

"Stop being such an Eeyore," John says, fond and exasperated, and hooks a hand around the nape of Rodney's neck to pull their mouths together. Rodney grumbles, but goes to him, just like always: John's mouth tastes of cool rain water; the thumb that's rubbing at one small patch of Rodney's skin, over and over, bears a new day's callus; the tiny hitch in John's breathing is a sound only Rodney is trusted to hear, a noise that only he can hear through the sheltering rainfall.

_Probably should be getting back, Teyla'll be waiting_, John says when their mouths are both kiss-swollen and John's eyes are heavy-lidded; _okay_, Rodney whispers, and kisses him again, and wonders again at what he gains each time he lingers in places like this—in moments when the whole world is being washed clean.


End file.
